Authors: Alex Wheatle
Chemist laughed. “Yeah, hold on. My t’ings are in my bedroom.”
Before he disappeared, Floyd called out to his herbalist: “Hey, Chemist, I don’t want no tea granules or thyme mixed up in my herb, man. And I don’t want no Brockwell Park grass which you cut up and soak and give to dem fool-fool white man. Just the other day some man down the line gave me a draw mixed up with dem t’ing der. So treat me proper, man, I’m a good customer.”
“Just cool, man. Would I do a t’ing like that?”
Minutes later, Chemist returned with a newspaper-wrapped sprinkling of cannabis. He passed it on to Floyd who opened it, with Brenton inspecting the herb as well. Chemist went into his sales patter. “That’s a serious herb, man, and I’ve given you more than a five-pound draw ’cos you two give me joke. You will be charged after one big-’ead, me ah tell you.”
Floyd nodded his approval. Chemist resumed, “Bwai, you jump in a garbage bin to get away from the beast. You two are coming like the Marx Brudders to rarted.”
Floyd was satisfied with his purchase. “Yeah, the herb smells all right. Can we use your bathroom to dash ’way our BO and t’ing? I’m just about to go to Sharon’s yard.”
“Yeah, well, you can’t pull no gal tonight renking like that, can you?”
Brenton glanced at Chemist cautiously, wondering why this guy thought his misfortune was so funny.
Chemist skinned his teeth again and parked on a sofa, preparing to pastry a spliff.
Two joint wrappings later, Brenton and Floyd had used the bathroom to freshen up and were ready to leave. “Hey Chemist, I’ll catch you later, yeah? And if this herb smoke bad, I’m gonna tell every herbalist in the land, and your rep will be so bad, you’ll end up lifting up crusty speaker boxes for your supper.”
“Yeah, seen, you ratted joker. Come out of my yard, man, and fling ’way your BO inna different direction. More time, yeah.”
Brenton followed his spar out of the flat and the two brethren made their way out of the estate. They quickly crossed Brixton Hill, scanning around them for any sign of the beast.
As they turned into New Park Road, their attention was caught by screams coming from the end of the street. Two black youths burned past a startled Floyd and Brenton, one of them clutching a handbag. A distraught white woman of about twenty years old yelled in vain: “You bastards! You fucking bastards!”
She might as well have been a Labrador barking at the flyaway, cunning crow. Every inhabitant of the street must have heard the
shrieking, but no one emerged from their shells to see what was occurring. Meanwhile, Floyd and Brenton stood at the other end of the street staring at each other. “It’s all happening tonight, innit? Can you friggin believe it?”
“Come, Sharon’s yard is just the next right-hand turning up there. Let’s chip before we get blamed for this shit. The stupid bitch shouldn’t be out this time of night.”
“Shouldn’t we …?” asked Brenton.
“No! Double no.”
For a split second, Brenton stood pillared to the spot, pondering on whether to go to the woman’s aid.
Then Floyd announced, the pig van nagging at his thoughts: “You know, one day there will be war in the streets between us and the beast.”
Still feeling humiliated by his experience in the bin, Brenton nodded his agreement, longing for that day of war.
They arrived at Sharon’s home and Floyd banged on the door, while Brenton nervously glanced up and down the street for any sign of the boys in blue.
Sharon’s silhouette became visible to Floyd through the misted glass of the front door. She proceeded to unlock two bolts, a mortice lock, and unfastened a latch. “Do you have to slap so friggin loud? You waan wake up me mudder?”
Sharon, dressed in a matching Burgundy blouse and skirt, didn’t realise she was talking loudly herself. Floyd spotted an Afro comb in her hair, and guessed she was preparing to go out raving. “Just let me in, man. Where’re you going tonight? Party?”
Floyd entered the dwelling followed by his spar, both of them passing Sharon. “All right, Brenton? Carol’s upstairs doing her hair. We’re going to a party, wanna come?”
“Nah. I’m tired, man.”
“I like the way you ask my spar. Wha’appen about asking me?”
Sharon smiled and lifted her fore-digit to her lips. “Be quiet, me mudder’s sleeping.”
As they made their way to the kitchen, Brenton assessed what he could see of the house. The wallpaper in the hallway had come to the end of its life. The passage carpet was sole weary -you could almost see your footprints in it, and the bulb lights had no shades around them, but they exposed the many fissures in the white painted ceiling.
As they entered the kitchen, Brenton saw a small, circular table, with four simple wooden chairs around it, which made him think of the police station. No modern appliances were in sight, not even an electric kettle - just the bare essentials. It was not like his mother’s home in this respect, but despite this, the place looked as tidy as anywhere else.
They parked around the kitchen table; Floyd gazing at Sharon lustfully, appreciating the way she was provocatively dressed.
“Who you a look ’pon? You lose somet’ing?” she asked cheekily.
Floyd smiled, but his face quickly became serious. “We got chased by the beast and we had to chip to the flats at Brixton Hill. I’m telling you, black man can’t trod street at night and feel safe.”
Sharon nodded as she began to comb through her hair. “There’s nuff drapesing going on around here, and the radication are all over the damn place, stopping everybody on the suss. It’s like dem few muggers make every innocent black man a suspect.”
“What’s suss?” Brenton asked.
“It’s like a law that says the beast can stop anyone and search them. The only t’ing is, the radication are taking nuff libs.”
“Well, the drapesings are true,” Floyd agreed. “We just saw some poor white bitch get drapes around the corner. Two crusty looking yout’ did burn past us in a serious hurry.”
Sharon shook her head in sympathy and Floyd could not help but notice her white bra, teasing him through her thin blouse. “You ain’t wearing that, are you?” he asked.
“Yes, I bloody am. No man’s gonna tell me how to dress. And besides, it’s gonna be hot in the dance. Don’t want me
renking of sweat, do you? And come to think of it, what’s that smell?”
A slightly embarrassed Floyd glanced at Brenton to seek some relief, but Brenton’s eyelids were tugged tight. “You two been searching for butts in a bin again?”
“You could say that,” replied Brenton.
“Have you been giving him too much herb?”
Brenton answered before Floyd could. “No, he hasn’t - just bought it from Chemist’s yard. Don’t like the look of that guy. I’m just tired and I want my bed. So Sharon, can you call me a cab, please? I’m stepping home.”
“I would if I could, but my mudder put a lock on the phone ’cos the last bill we got, went bionic, y’understand? Anyway, there’s a phone box just around the corner, although you’ll be lucky to find it in one piece.”
On hearing this, Brenton painfully got up from his chair and trudged his way along the dimly lit hallway. Suddenly, the wails of a very young baby startled him. “Whose pickney is that?”
“My sister’s.”
Brenton opened the front door. Aware of a presence at the top of the stairs, he looked up and clocked Carol standing on the landing, holding a small make-up mirror in her left hand and looking very sophisticated, wearing an expensive, close-fitting dress which displayed all her bone-waking charms. Brenton eyed her tall figure as Carol glided down two steps. “Where you going? You’re not coming to the party?” she asked.
“Nah, I’m too tired, innit. I’ve been up since early morning and I have to be up tomorrow morning as well.”
Carol, one hand on her hip, glared at Brenton. “It seems like you’re scared to rave with me. I don’t bite, you know.”
Brenton placed his right hand on the door, giving the impression he was in a hurry. “Nah, seriously Carol. I’m tired badly. Look, we’ll all rave together the next time, yeah?”
“I’ll have to see it to believe it.”
Brenton swivelled and disappeared out of the front door, thinking as he strode towards the phone box that Carol must think he was a battyman or something. Pretty as she was, he didn’t want her.
The lecherous Floyd was left in the kitchen with the girl of his desires. Now that his spar had gone out, it gave license for his eyes to truly appreciate the beauty sitting opposite him. Sharon was still styling her hair as he rose up from his chair. He pulled her arm to make her stand up, then kissed her fully on the mouth. Sharon responded by embracing him, then suddenly she jerked herself way. “I’m just gonna check to see if Carol’s ready.”
“Carol can get ready by herself. I haven’t seen you all week.”
She went off upstairs, leaving her man feeling unfulfilled. He slumped at the table, pushing his head into his hands and quietly muttered, “Women.”
When two taps on the front door indicated Brenton’s return, Floyd went to open it. “The cab’s on its way, be here in a minute,” Brenton announced.
“You let me down, man. I need you to come to this dance to manners Carol, innit. Now she’s gonna get in the way ’cos she’s on her tod. Why are you going home so early, anyway? What are you doing tomorrow?”
“Family business.”
A coffee later, a cab horn hollered outside. Feeling relieved, because sometimes you may order a cab in Brixton, only for the car to go missing, Brenton departed, making sure he closed the front door quietly. Floyd was left behind to ponder how could it take two Brixtonian girls so long to get ready for a night out? And how was he gonna get rid of Carol? He would have to try another time to entice Sharon back to his yard.
E
arly the next morning, a rap on his room door awaked Brenton. Hurriedly, he slipped on a pair of jeans and
T-shirt
and then found his Afro-comb underneath his bed. He opened the door to reveal an impatient-looking Juliet, wrapped in her beige camel coat. “Ain’t you ready yet?” she nagged. “It’s gone half past eight.”
Brenton picked up a hand towel. “Yeah, I’m just gonna dash ’way my BO. By the way, who let you in?”
“The guy in the room next to you; he let me in the last time. I think he just come back from a party, he was all dressed up.”
“Did he say anything?”
“Like what?”
“Oh, it don’t matter.”
“Then why did you ask?”
Juliet went downstairs, surveying the decor. The white-painted walls reminded her of her dentist’s surgery, and in the hallway, she caught sight of many leaflets scattered on the small table near the base of the stairs. She picked one of them up and read the headline: How To Prepare Yourself For An Interview. Not bothering to read the pages, she ventured into the kitchen, where a notice above the sink read: Leave The Kitchen As You Find It. Juliet smiled to herself, walked out of the kitchen and sat down at the foot of the staircase, careful not to crease her coat. Out of her black leather handbag, she took a small make-up mirror and
checked if her hair was behaving itself. She heard her brother heavy-stepping upstairs and the sound became louder as he bullfrogged down to where she sat.
“Did you rave last night?” she asked. “I called about ten and got no answer.”
“Me and Floyd went to Brixton Town Hall, the place was cork.”
“Them sound dance, I just can’t take the grief in my ears any more. All that boof, bang, bing.”
She stood up and joined her yawning brother, ready to leave the hostel together.
Petticoat Lane Market, in London’s East End, already had a busy vibe, even though it was a quarter to ten on a Sunday morning. Brenton couldn’t keep up with the variety of goods on sale, and found it hard to believe that so many people could rise from their beds so early to shop on a Sunday morning. The traders were selling everything and anything. Pots, pans, cutlery, carpets, wallpaper, hi-fis, clothes and more clothes. Biscuit should step down here and get a job, he thought.
Scything through the crowds, he spotted a van selling hot dogs and hamburgers. He nudged his sister. “I have to go and get myself a dog roll. Feeling peckish, man. Do you want anything?”
Juliet shook her head. “No thanks. I cooked myself a fry-up before I reached your place.”
Just as Brenton was threading his way towards the mobile
take-away
, his mind flashed back to another incident in his troubled past.
In his inner vision, he saw not the hot-dog van, but an
icecream
mobile. There were white kids all around him, excited with the thought of tonguing choc-ices and lollies. Brenton was queuing up, eager to satisfy his taste buds. When his moment arrived, he viced the pennies tightly in his fist, making sure not to drop any. Then from a radiant smile, the vendor’s face turned scornful and aggressive, glaring down at the ten-year-old Brenton. “We don’t serve the likes of you. Go on, hoppit.”
Quickly blinking his eyes and quivering his head, the now adult Brenton joined the queue for his morning starter, staring at the cheerful young man serving the hot snacks. As he was about to be served, Brenton never blinked, thinking history might repeat itself. But there was no repetition as he grabbed his hot dog, half mauling it by the time he returned to his sister’s side.
Juliet led the way through the streets, side-stepping onto a pavement with more walking space. Every now and again, she stopped and ran her eyes over any item of clothing that tickled her fancy. Her brother was not so enthusiastic, although a collection of hand-made china figures and wooden statues fascinated him.
The couple left Petticoat Lane, with Juliet telling Brenton how criss he would look in a new suede jacket she had bought him. Brenton was more than pleased with his present, eager to sight Floyd’s face when he set eyes on it. Biscuit would probably say he had one like Brenton’s that was on offer for fifteen notes.
The siblings made their way back to Brenton’s hostel, via Tube and bus. All seemed very quiet inside his home. Floyd was perhaps still sleeping, or gone out to visit Sharon, making sure he consumed a decent cooked meal for the week.
Brenton opened his room door and was followed inside by his sister. She took off her coat and sat on the bed, watching him proudly hang his birthday present in the wardrobe. Juliet studied the bedroom, thinking it would probably fit into her own room at least two and a half times. She looked at Mr Dean, feeling uncomfortable under his ever-watchful eyes.
“You must be the only black guy I know who’s got a picture of James Dean in their bedroom. I mean, most black guys have the Gong or someone like Dennis Brown. What’s with you and James Dean? Do you fancy him?”
“Well, I certainly don’t fancy the bastard. I like his films though. He always acts the kind of rebel. I suppose in a way I see myself in him - you know, not quite fitting in.”
Juliet listened intently as Brenton went on: “He always seemed
to be fighting everybody, as if the whole world was against him. Well, sometimes I feel like that.”
“Got any decent soul tapes here?”
Brenton stood up and sifted through a selection of cassette tapes on the windowsill. “Er, let me see. Er, no. But I’ve got lovers rock.”
He turned around to see his sister smiling and nodding her head. Juliet watched her brother switch on the battered suitcase and insert a tape. “There’s some Brown Sugar, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen on this tape, and a bit of Sugar Minott. Yeah man, wicked lovers.”
Juliet was now totally relaxed, lying comfortably on the bed. “So I bet you and Floyd go to nuff blues and parties and pull nuff gal, innit?”
Still fiddling with the knobs of the suitcase, trying to extract more bass if he possibly could, Brenton laughed. “That’s Floyd’s scene. I don’t go to a lot of blues, and besides, I’ve never had the nerve to pull a girl in a dance. I’d rather go to a hall dance or something, where they play dubwise.”
Juliet hauled herself up and faced her brother. “You waan dance?”
Nervously, he placed his arms loosely around his sister’s waist, then, in the aisle of the confined space between the window and the bed, the couple rocked together to Brown Sugar’s
I’m
So
Proud.
“Not so fast, Brenton.” Juliet’s hands found her brother’s shoulders, appreciating the rugged-hewn, brown rock of torso as she gently taloned his shoulder blades. Brenton was concentrating on the movement of his feet, not wanting his sister to know that he was a virgin when it came to crubbing with a gal. He jerked his head towards the side of Juliet’s head, not wanting to look at her face to face. Juliet responded by holding the startled Brenton closer. Now both of them could feel their thighs brushing and rubbing together. Neither one dared to gaze at the other now, as
they both felt their conduct smacked the face of moral decency. I wonder if Terry Flynn’s got a woman, Brenton suddenly thought. He looked up at Mr Dean for approval.
The bone-wakened Brenton gently placed his hands at the back of his sister’s neck and stroked the delicate area there. Then he fished for her jet-black hair, his fingers imitating scissors, pulling and caressing with his right hand. His left hand was still soothingly covering Juliet’s neck, like a protective guard against attack. Juliet closed her eyes dreamily, feeling as if she was being embalmed by a healing hand.
Aroused, she arched her back, inviting her would-be lover to caress the front of her neck. Her hands still pressed against her brother’s shoulders, but then she dropped them to his waist. Although perspiring, Brenton still wore his pullover, so without any hesitation, Juliet pulled the sweater off and hauled it on the bed, revealing the unironed T-shirt he was wearing. Juliet giggled out loud while Brenton looked mortified. Then she tugged his shirt out of his jeans and slipped her nail-varnished hands onto Brenton’s muscular back, skanking her fingers teasingly up and down his spine.
By now, the couple had stopped crubbing, although the music was still playing, having an almost hypnotic effect on them. They stood still, touching and exploring each other’s bodies. Brenton lowered his head and softly kissed his sister’s neck. Body language told them what they both wanted, so they fell entwined on the bed.
Without daring to look at each other, they undressed themselves. Juliet, not wanting to be seen naked, dived under the bedcovers while Brenton undressed to his briefs. He slowly edged in next to his sister and enclosed his arms around her. For a few seconds they remained gummed in each other’s embrace, until Juliet’s hands began to trespass over a well-developed chest. The kissing resumed … Juliet trailed her fingers along Brenton’s thighs from above the knee to the upper part of his groin. Breathing hard he wondered what he should do with his hands, until she gently
guided them to her breasts. Brenton slammed his eyes shut as Juliet took off his briefs. Soon, the couple were making furious love to the sound of Sugar Minott’s
Never
Too
Young.
Tow hours later, Brenton and Juliet were lying still, tired and naked. She coched her head on her brother’s chest as he stared into space, not quite believing what had happened. “Somehow, from the first time I did see you, I had a vibe this would happen,” Juliet whispered sleepily. “You know that time we weren’t talking? I was asking myself: how could I fancy my own brother?”
“Yeah, I know what you mean. I was asking myself the same t’ing.”
The couple remained in bed for the rest of the afternoon and early evening. They were without a thought for food, drink or anything else. They made love, talked a little and made more love.
Brenton stroked his sister’s hair as he wondered what the hell was going on with his emotions. He kept on thinking to himself, What a way to blast one’s virginity. He didn’t want this day to end, for his night had run away for the present. None of the childhood nightmares and dramas seemed to matter any longer. The revenge he had promised himself to visit on Terry Flynn was a distant thought, tucked away in a drawer in the cellar of his mind. He knew what it was like to experience the bottomless pit of sadness and depression. But now, Brenton Brown learned that because he’d been so desolate in the past, he could truly appreciate these moments of bliss.
Juliet didn’t understand what drove her into the arms of her sibling, but she felt it was something she had to have and savour. My God, I’m actually doing this, she said inwardly.
Her lover looked across to the window and realised he hadn’t even drawn the curtains shut. He grinned to himself and his sister turned her head towards him, smiling radiantly. “What sweet you? You’ve got the smile of a young boy who has just been told he’s won a trip to Disneyland.”
“You sweet me, this don’t seem real, man. Shit, the beast can lock me up for this, innit?”
Brenton gave his sister a tender kiss on the forehead, then decided to rise up and get dressed. Floyd would be returning to the hostel soon, he thought. Juliet followed suit. It was only now that she experienced the first kuffs of guilt, aware that her particular love story was not to be found in her collection of slushy novels. Mum would have a breakdown, she thought. Brenton, however, had no regrets; he wouldn’t give morals the time of day.
A few minutes later, the couple were both dressed. Juliet was busy making sure her ebony-coloured hair looked criss, while Brenton remade his bed. As Juliet finished grooming herself, he warily opened his bedroom door, checking if Floyd was about. Thank God there was no sign of him yet.
Juliet, not entirely happy with her hair, squeezed on her shoes and joined her brother. Together they emerged from the bedroom looking as blameless as if they had spent the day flicking through photo albums.
Brenton escorted his lover back to her home. Once he reached there, his mother made sure he did not leave without a hot dinner nourishing his stomach.
Ms Massey asked her son how they celebrated a child’s birthday in the children’s home. He answered that he would rather forget his childhood birthdays than remember them. His mother tried to reassure him that future birthdays would be more memorable, and then presented him with a twenty-pound note and a birthday card. Brenton thanked her for the gesture, while Juliet remained unusually quiet, finding it hard to come up with a smile.
After Ms Massey conceded defeat in trying to persuade her son to eat any more rice and peas, Brenton prepared himself to brave the elements. He thanked his mother for the dinner and then wondered where his sister had disappeared to.
“Where’s Juliet?”
“Maybe she’s resting up in her room. She looks tired.”
Brenton climbed the stairs, pondering on why Juliet had been withdrawn and not quite herself once she arrived home. He knuckled her door and walked inside. He found his sister rewinding a cassette tape in her stereo. “Something the matter?” he asked.
Brown Sugar shrilled their delicate tones from the machine and it didn’t take Brenton long to recognise his lovers rock tape. “Don’t mind me taking your tape, do you?”
Brenton shook his head. “No, no. Course not.”
Juliet glanced at the stereo, then back at her brother. “I’m gonna cherish this tape … look, I’ll call you, yeah? I’m tired badly and need some rest-eye. I dunno if I’m going to work tomorrow. Anyway, I’ll call you tomorrow night, yeah?”
Brenton stood up. “I’m tired myself. It’s been quite a day, innit? I’ll see you soon, yeah.”
Still a little baffled, Brenton departed the room, leaving Juliet gazing at her stereo, reflecting on the early part of the day. But she couldn’t help feeling sinful, whenever she exchanged glances with her mother in the course of the evening.
Brenton had none of these misgivings. He left the Masseys’ abode feeling that not even a gluttonous cat in an aviary was as happy as he.